


Open Up Your Eyes

by deansparkles



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Or Is It?, Pining, Resident Evil 6, Unrequited Love, mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:03:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6501820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansparkles/pseuds/deansparkles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Piers Nivans doesn’t remember when he fell in love with Chris Redfield. Which might have something to do with the fact that Piers, normally so quick to pick up on the smallest of details, did not realize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Piers Nivans doesn’t remember when he fell in love with Chris Redfield. Maybe it happened slowly, building up over time. Maybe it was an accidental touch, or in one of those moments where it had been just the two of them, staring into the familiar face of danger, safe with the knowledge that if push comes to shove they’ll have each other’s backs. 

No, Piers cannot pinpoint the exact moment it happened. When it all changed. Which might have something to do with the fact that Piers, normally so quick to pick up on the smallest of details, did not realize. 

When really he should have realized it at the first sign that something was different. They were back in the States, in between missions, having some time off. For the others that meant leaving work and going home. For Piers, it meant the exact opposite.

The BSAA gives him a feeling of family and belonging and purpose his own never had. Fighting bioterrorism is what the world needs. It’s what he’s good at. Pulling the trigger on his sniper rifle from several hundred meters away, hearing the dull thud of a B.O.W. hitting the ground, the knowledge spreading through him that he might have saved someone’s life, that he’s achieved something, changed something for the better — _that_ feeling just can’t compare to sitting at home on his couch, zapping through the mindless crap playing on the TV, listening to the same empty conversations over and over again. 

Still, he does take the time to see his parents every time he’s on leave, because even though his mother tells him she doesn’t worry, Piers knows she does. Of course he's got the utmost respect for his father, glad that he never fails to make an effort to show his pride. His father always tells him that he knows that Piers’ll ‘do the right thing’, and Piers promises to do so every time those four little words are directed at him. After all, it’s what he’s chosen to do — this life and the risks and responsibilities that come with it. 

He never thinks about the detail that all of his family has trodden down the military path, or the fact that fighting in the army and saving lives is all his father and grandfather ever went on about whenever the topic turned to that of Piers’s future. Not one single part of his strong-willed mind has ever taken into consideration that perhaps — and just perhaps — him turning into the man he is today has never been his own choice at all. 

After visiting his parents, he’s still got some free days left before it’s back to work. Might as well get some preparation done before leaving, at least this way the time’s not completely wasted. 

And so Piers finds himself sitting in a tiny, but homely and — in its own special way — likeable diner, sipping his over-sweetened coffee, and waiting for a familiar bulky shape to walk through the door. And hell, he really should have noticed right there, in that moment. The sweaty hands, unable to keep still; one fiddling with the handle of the coffee cup, the other scratching the skin on the back of his neck for what must be the hundredth time in the ten minutes he’s been sitting here.

The elderly woman at the table across is already shooting him annoyed glances, pushing up her thick-rimmed glasses with one way too conveniently placed middle-finger, the stern eyes fixed on Piers’s foot that keeps tapping on the floor. He’s already far too annoyed with himself and this weird new habit to care about the stranger’s dismay and to try to force himself to stop and keep still. He's vaguely aware that his heart rate has picked up speed, as if he’s in immediate danger, when he knows that it’s absolutely ridiculous to feel that kind of anxious in a diner that mostly occupied by pensioners and families with little kids.

Piers tries to swallow, but his throat is so dry that it almost hurts. He necks the entire cup of coffee in one go, only now realizing that he fucking forgot to stir the damn thing, and then resisting the urge to vomit at the overwhelming sweetness that lingers in the back of his throat. Instead, he gets a coughing fit, earning another disapproving look from the lady next to him.

It takes him a couple of long, agonizing minutes — and for the fraction of a second he’s seriously considering the possibility of a heart attack — to finally recognize what the hell is wrong with him. 

Piers Nivans is _nervous_. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the sensation. Angers he knows. He’s always had a temper, and he can deal with his occasional outbursts. He’s always been sure of himself and his abilities. In the field, he’s able to remain focused, he’s calm and collected when the situation requires it, and most importantly, he never allows his emotions to get in the way of achieving his goals. Let alone something as ridiculous as nervousness.

 _Nervous,_ Piers thinks grimly _. Jesus Christ, get yourself together_.

“You should try the pancakes.”

Startled and still lost in thought, Piers almost manages to knock over his empty coffee cup, catching it at the last second.

_What the hell, Nivans?_

“You okay?” Chris asks, taking place in the seat in front of him. 

“Yeah,” Piers says. His voice comes out squeaky and hoarse, so _unlike_ himself, and he clears his throat, taking another attempt. “Yeah. Just had too much caffeine, that’s all.”

Thankfully, Chris leaves it at that. Piers doesn’t know how the hell he’d attempt to explain this strange new behavior of his anyway. Even his stomach has begun acting weird now — there’s this queasy feeling spreading through his gut. Piers blames it on the sugar overexposure, not wanting to admit to himself that whatever is up with him has taken hold over his body and mind completely, with no tangible chance of escape. 

The waitress comes to their table, a kind smile on her round face as she’s filling up Piers’s coffee cup and noting Chris’s order — pancakes with chocolate syrup. Once she’s gone again, Piers doesn’t bother putting any sugar in his coffee, even though the stuff is way too bitter for his taste. He cups the mug with both of his hands, preventing them to shoot up to his neck again, and takes a long sip, this time actually putting some effort into getting his tapping foot under control. 

They dive straight into work, not wasting any time with an attempt at talking about something insignificant like the weather — small talk has never been their strong point. Maybe it’s exactly because of that fact, that Chris’s next question takes Piers so aback.

“So, how do you like the coffee?”

“It’s terrible,” Piers says flatly.

“Of course it’s terrible,” Chris announces, and though there’s not a hint of a twitch at the corner of the captain’s mouth, Piers can _hear_ the smile in Chris’s voice. “That’s the charm of it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Piers says, ignoring the feeling of that weird twist in his stomach wandering up into his chest. “So about those rumors concerning the Guerrillas—”

“Piers, when’s the last time you took a break?” Chris cuts him off. It takes him a few moments, but Piers eventually places the look in the captain's eyes as worry. Has he been so obvious?

“I’m on break now, Captain,” Piers replies, because he’s a smartass.

Chris snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I know. But when’s the last time you took a _real_ break? Without constantly worrying about the next mission, I mean.” He pushes the finished plate of pancakes away from him and leans back into his chair. “I dunno, you got a girl or something?”

They’ve never talked about this, so of course Chris doesn’t know such things. He never asked. The captain isn’t someone who pries into the men’s private lives just for the sake of it, even with such mundane things as girlfriends. Piers especially isn’t someone who’s known to be prone to over-share. Chris, on the other hand, is a guy who mentions the most personal things about his life at the most random times — but he never actually elaborates on them. Piers just knows snippets of things Chris told him himself and the plenty of things he’s heard from others that he’s got to stitch together to create a complete picture. All in all he thinks he’s got a pretty good idea of who Chris Redfield actually is. 

“I don’t,” Piers eventually answers, wondering what exactly Chris is aiming for with this change of topic.

“Why not?”

“She’d always come second,” Piers returns honestly, “and I don’t wanna do that to someone. It wouldn’t be fair to her or to me. I’ve got priorities, and I don’t think anyone who’s not in this line of work would ever understand them. Didn’t think I’d have to explain that to _you_.”

Chris is watching him, arms crossed, and Piers holds his gaze, thinking about how Chris has gotta be one of the few people who actually _does_ understand that dilemma fully and truly. What he doesn’t expect is Chris giving a soft chuckle at Piers’s words.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Chris replies, shaking his head. “You’re so... determined. So— You just remind me of someone, that’s all.”

Piers tilts his head, studying Chris with an expectant look, but as ever so often the captain doesn’t say more on the topic.

“But still,” Chris continues after a long moment has passed, brushing over all of those questions he’s just managed to raise in Piers’s head. “You need to do something fun for once. Go to the movies or something. Watch one of those Marvel movies Moira and Polly are always banging on about.”

Chris sounds so terribly _old_ in that moment that Piers has to fight a smirk daring to appear on his lips. “Well, what are you doing this weekend?” he asks suddenly, the question leaving his mouth before he can stop himself. 

“I’m visiting Jill, actually,” Chris says, apparently not finding Piers asking him out on a movie date strange at all. “She’s finally allowed some time out of that lab now that she’s starting rehab soon. We’ll go for a beer and do some needed catching up. She’s been away for far too long. It’ll be good to have her back in the BSAA.”

Piers sags back into his seat, absently stirring his coffee as he watches Chris’s face gradually light up with each spoken word. Notices the way Chris says Jill’s name, how his voice changes, a rare wide smile forming on his lips. He wonders how the hell it’s possible that Chris is so awfully unaware of his own feelings. How can you not know that you’re in love with someone when it’s all there for the whole world to see? 

Piers hasn’t even met Jill, but from what he’s heard she’s as impressive as it gets — considering she survived both the Mansion Incident _and_ the destruction of Raccoon City. She’s been with Chris from the very beginning, all the way to taking down Umbrella and founding the BSAA to finally putting an end to Albert Wesker’s madness.

Jill Valentine is as much of a legend as Chris Redfield. And Piers isn’t someone to throw around that label lightly. 

Knowing all this, he doesn’t understand why he suddenly feels so irritated. His fingers clench around the handle of the spoon and he tears his eyes away from the absent smile that’s still lingering on Chris’s features, at the same time thinking how _good_ it feels to see the captain smile this freely — it’s a picture that’s far too rare.

 _If all of that’s true, then why can’t you even bear to look at him right now?_ a small voice whispers in the back of his head.

A scowl steals its way onto Piers’s face all on its own, and before he has the chance to suppress it, Chris has already snapped out of his reverie.

Chris leans closer, his brow furrowing in apparent confusion. There's some worry there again, too. Damn it. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Piers says, because it’s the truth. Or it should be. He lets go of the spoon and pushes the coffee cup away from him. Maybe he’s had too much caffeine today after all. “This cheap stuff leaves an unpleasant aftertaste, that’s all.”

“Claire’s also in town for a few days. You know, if you don’t wanna go alone. You’ve got her number, right?”

Piers makes a noncommittal humming sound, letting his gaze wander over the diner. A table occupied by a father and his two sons catches his eye. The older of the two — the kid can’t be much older than five, Piers guesses — has his face covered in what looks like chocolate syrup, while the other is emptying the entire content of the sugar bowl on the table. The father looks completely swamped with trying to clean up the messes, but at the same time Piers can’t help but notice how fucking _happy_ the guy looks. As if there’s not a single place on earth he’d rather be than in this odd little diner with this two chaotic kids. 

For a second he tries to picture Chris in the father’s place; the captain’s almost forty after all. He manages, but it’s difficult. Next, he attempts to imagine himself sitting there among screaming children and covered in sugar and splashes of chocolate syrup — and instantly fails. With Chris, the picture simply doesn't feel right. With himself, it feels completely and utterly wrong. 

The thing that’s the most bothering to Piers is that he doesn’t understand _why_.

“I think she liked you,” Chris goes on, so painfully unaware of the havoc that’s raging in Piers’s head at the very moment. “Didn’t you keep in touch after we met up with Terra Save that other day in the field?”

“Yeah, we’ve... we’ve been exchanging e-mails.” Piers finally dares to look up again, only now seeing that Chris has traces of chocolate syrup smeared around the corner of his mouth. His hand’s starting to itch to wipe it away, and before he’s gonna give himself the chance to do something _that_ stupid, Piers directs a nod at Chris, keeping his hands firmly in check at his sides. “You know, maybe you’re right, Captain. Maybe I do need a break.”

* * *

 

The movie date with Claire starts off a tad too awkward for Piers’s taste. He tries to pin it on the fact that they’ve mostly been communicating through written words and have only ever managed to meet in person that one time on location. Exchanging e-mails is one thing, Piers tells himself. Meeting someone face to face is another. Of course it’s bound to be awkward, isn’t it? Nothing to do with the fact that Claire’s the captain’s sister. Nothing to do with it at all.

He likes Claire, of course he does. She’s determined, intelligent, brave, kind, quick-witted — all traits he admires in a person. But now that they’re standing in front of the cinema hall, waiting for the staff to tidy up the mess the other movie-goers have left behind, the awkwardness of the silence is gradually growing smothering. Out of the corners of his eyes, he can feel Claire watching him, and he throws her a quick, half-hearted smile. 

“You know, I brought the pictures you asked for,” Claire all of a sudden breaks through the silence. “Of Chris when he was younger?”

“You did?” Piers exclaims, a tad _too_ enthusiastically. He clears his throat and quickly takes a step back, regaining his composure. 

Claire nods at him, and, looking at that strange glint in her blue eyes combined with the wide smile that’s starting to spread on her lips, something in Piers’s chest begins to flutter with anticipation and he silently begins to wonder what the hell he’s going to see on those pictures. He’s heard the captain’s looked very different back then, but nobody ever dared to explain exactly _how_ different. Chris certainly never agreed to show the men anything. Of course that only ever managed to fuel their imagination further — was it a particularly embarrassing haircut? A horrible fashion sense that’s a bit too true to the decade? A _moustache_? 

Claire hands Piers her bucket of popcorn and starts rummaging through her purse. Piers resists the urge to shift his weight from one foot to another, unwilling to show how impatient he is to finally _know_. 

“Here,” Claire eventually says as she hands him a batch of photos. “Had to do some digging to get a hold of these. Chris threw a lot away throughout the years, but you can always count on Barry to keep some old embarrassing family photos of you.”

When Piers first sets his eyes upon the photograph in his hands, he doesn’t even _recognize_ the captain. He stares at the man looking back at him for what feels like forever, his thumb carefully tracing the attentively-styled spiky hair, which, Piers half-realizes, is not that unlike Piers’s own personal choice of everyday hairdo. In the picture, Chris is wearing a dark-brown leatherjacket and there’s a pair of sunglasses tucked on the rim of his white shirt. Not even a trace of a beard can be seen. 

“He looks so—” Piers trails off, struggling to find the right word.

“Scrawny?” Claire prompts.

“—young,” Piers finishes. He stacks the picture away, taking a look at the one underneath it. It’s a photo of Claire and Chris walking down the street together, with Claire holding onto her brother’s arm. They both look so casual. Unburdened. _Young_.

“Well, of course he does. I took that picture of him about 15 years ago.”

Piers wasn’t talking about Chris’s physical age, but one glance at Claire’s eyes tells him that she knows exactly what Piers meant. 

The next photo in the batch is one of Chris on his own again, and Piers can’t suppress a snort the moment he lays his eyes on it. “Are you kidding me? Chris Redfield goes _fishing_ in his free time?” 

“Went fishing,” Claire clarifies. “Gave it up around the time he started hitting the gym so excessively. About the same time when they founded the BSAA, I think.”

“The more you know,” Piers mutters. 

The photo after that shows both Chris and Jill in their S.T.A.R.S. uniforms. They’re both sitting at two respective desks, completely unaware of having their picture taken. Chris's body is turned to Jill’s direction, apparently asking her something, a smirk on his face that’s so affectionate that it almost seems too intimate to capture it on camera. They’ve been so close, even back then...

There’s this strange surge of irritation threatening to fill his gut again. Before he has the chance to quickly move on to the next picture, another person at the edge of the photograph catches Piers’s eye. There’s a guy wearing an orange vest leaning with his back against Chris’s desk. Piers got a well-enough knowledge of the former S.T.A.R.S. team, but this guy he doesn’t recognize. 

“Who’s that?”

Claire leans over to him, taking a closer look at the man Piers is pointing to. “Richard from Bravo team, I think. But I'm not sure. Chris doesn’t talk much about that time.”

Piers just nods, remembering that none of the of the guys from the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team survived the Mansion Incident in the Arklay Mountains, except for Rebecca Chambers. Most of them lost their lives before Alpha team even got there. Richard too?

The door to the cinema hall opens, and one of the ushers tells them that they can finally go inside. Piers holds out the batch of pictures for Claire, but she shakes her head. “Keep them for now. I’m sure this isn’t the last time we see each other.”

“Thanks,...” For a moment he seriously considers calling her ‘ma’am’ as he did in his first e-mail to her, but as soon as Claire lifts her eyebrows at him, he quickly decides to better ditch that idea. “...Claire.”

“Just don’t show them to Chris, or neither of us will be allowed to set eyes on them ever again.”

Piers smirks again. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

After that, talking gets easier. He finds that, in regard to most things, he and Claire share the same mindset, be that their passion for good food or their opinions on work-ethics. He admires Claire’s take-no-shit-attitude and her sense of humor — Piers always found it easy to get along with people who understand sarcasm. 

The movie is good, though it hits a bit too close to home for both of their tastes. He sees Claire swallow once Captain America realizes that his best friend has been alive all this time, after he’s watched him fall into what seemed to be certain death. Piers imagines how it must feel like, losing a close friend in war, to then finally find them again without them having any recollection whatsoever of who you are. Like hell, he thinks. It must feel like hell.

Claire averts her gaze away from the screen for a second, no doubt being reminded of what happened to her and Burton’s eldest daughter last year. He knows that nobody blamed her for escaping without Moira. But guilt, Piers knows, has never been logical. He reaches out to briefly touch her arm, patting it once reassuringly. He raises his eyebrows, silently asking if she’s okay. She nods at him.

Once the credits start rolling, Piers and Claire remain sitting in their seats, watching the hall grow gradually emptier as they wait for the after-credits scene to appear. Feeling unobserved for a moment, Piers dares another peek at the batch of photos he’s stuffed into one of his pockets. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the idea that this is the same Chris Redfield as the hulk of a captain who’s leading the SOU’s Alpha team right now. Piers finds himself questioning which version of Chris he likes better, and before he’s got the chance to figure out when and _why the hell_ he’s begun to even care so much about the size of Chris’s muscles, Claire gives him a light nudge with her elbow. 

“Want some of my popcorn?” she asks, holding out the medium-sized bucket for him. “There’s still so much left and I’d rather not throw it all away.”

Piers nods and guides a handful of salty popcorn into his mouth. Claire keeps staring at him with that strange glint in her eyes again, making him mildly uncomfortable. Just as he turns to her, she begins inching closer to him, so close that their knees are touching. Then she leans in, and Piers immediately feels like he has to draw a line.

Just as he says, “Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression—” Claire asks, “So, how long have you been in love with my brother?”

Piers starts chocking on his popcorn.

Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concerning the timeline: this takes place in late summer 2012, a few months before Edonia. The Winter Soldier doesn't come out until 2014, but I thought the parallels were too fitting to not have Claire and Piers watch that movie (instead of The Avengers, which did come out in 2012).  
> Some of the photos Claire gives to Piers I imagined looking similar to these:  
> http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/residentevil/images/0/03/Resident_Evil_3_Epilogue_2_Chris_Redfield.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20110608232314  
> https://i.warosu.org/data/vr/img/0021/47/1419818717506.jpg  
> http://projectumbrella.net/files/images/end_%20%281%29.PNG


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine." — Richard Siken, _Little Beast_

After that dreadful realization has set in, Piers wishes he could go back to not knowing. 

He tries to think rationally about it, tries confronting it like he would any other problem that needs to be fixed — and then realizes that there’s not one single damn thing that’s even remotely close to rational about what he’s feeling. 

God damn it. He doesn’t want this. It complicates things. It’s fucking _inconvenient_. It creates problems that are not necessary. There’s no solution to this, no happy ending. Even if he disregards the fact that Chris is, by all Piers knows, in love with his former partner and probably always has been — Chris is his superior. His captain. What’s Piers gonna do during missions? It’s not like he can just avoid Chris from now on. So how’s he gonna hide it? How’s he not gonna let it go in the way? And, most importantly, what the hell is he gonna do when push comes to shove and he has to decide between Chris and the importance of the mission?

He seriously considers asking to be redeployed to a different unit, but the selfish part of him quickly discards the notion again. He knows he’s the best sniper the BSAA’s got — if someone needs to keep the men safe from a distance, he wants it to be himself.

So he’s doing the only thing he can do — pretend it never happened. Which, as Piers should be used to by now, is a whole lot harder than it sounds. 

It only manages to get worse over the months. The simplest things begin to tear at his heart, tugging at it, clenching, the feeling growing more painful with each passing day, with each time their eyes happen to meet across a room, with each lingering pat on his shoulder that means everything and nothing at all. No matter how banal the things that happen are — he’s either forced to spend entire days fighting off a terribly giddy smile that’s threatening to crack his mask, or wallow in unreasonable surges of anger.

Piers hates it, hates all of it. And especially he hates that, sometimes, he doesn’t want it to stop.

And on top of it all is Chris, so painfully oblivious. Hovering behind him all the time, breathing down his neck, with that goddamn smell that seems to radiate from his over-sized body. One time they end up in the changing room together after working out at the BSAA’s gym, the other man practically shoving his six-pack into Piers’s face, testing every inch of self-control he possesses. 

Once they arrive in Edonia, Piers thinks there’s no possible way this could get any worse.

It does. 

It’s not as if he’s asking Chris on a date again. They gotta eat sometime, right? Shouldn’t matter if it’s just the two of them. 

“Captain,” Piers says, firmly pretending that he’s not just begun sweating. For Christ’s sake. “How do you feel about steak?”

Chris stops in his tracks. The snow crunches underneath his boots as he turns to look back at Piers. “Steak?”

“Yeah.”

“Who _doesn’t_ like steak?”

Deciding to leave _that_ rather uncommented, Piers walks up to Chris’s side. “Well, I found this bar the other day. It’s as much of a shithole as it gets around here, but the steak’s awesome. Almost like back home.”

A half-smile tugs at the corner of Chris’s mouth. “Really? That good?”

Piers smirks. “That good, Captain.”

Chris exhales through his nose, the vapor of his breath visible in the crisp winter air that surrounds them. Before Piers has the chance to do or say anything more, the captain has already turned around, facing the rookie walking behind them. “Hey, Finn?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Ask the others if they wanna go for steak tonight. I’m buying.”

Finn’s eyes briefly flicker to the direction of where Piers is glaring at him, and for a second he seems seriously afraid that the sniper’s gonna jump him. Finn warily looks back at Chris, hesitating first, then nodding. “Will do, Captain.”

“That’s... nice of you,” Piers comments once the rookie has hurried over to the rest of the team, and he means it. 

Chris still has his back turned to him, the dark, solid silhouette a sharp contrast against the soft golden hue of the setting evening sun on the horizon behind him. “Who knows what we’ll be doing on Christmas Eve. Might as well treat us with something nice while the rest of the world’s preparing for the holidays.” 

At the bar, Piers is strangely glad the captain seized the opportunity to have all of the SOU’s Alpha team together for one evening, even if it’s not as lighthearted as everyone wishes it to be. Nobody is at ease tonight, not truly. And they are right not to be. Being on alert at all times is crucial. It’s like Chris said — who knows what tomorrow will bring? Or even the next hour? They’re at war. Every moment you let your guard down might turn out to be your last. 

But, knowing all that, Chris chose exactly this night to give the men something of normality, something of home.

The bar truly is a shithole — located in the middle of nowhere, occupied with more dirty-smelling drunkards than anyone else. Still, the food is at good at it gets, and when Piers looks up he even discovers a cord of fairy lights fastened on the wall that must be serving as Christmas decorations, making the whole place look more welcoming than it actually is. To think that — even in a country that’s been at civil war for more than two years, a country on the brink of  destruction — there’s still this little flicker of hope to be found. A few tiny multicolored light bulbs, flashing red and blue, the staccato rhythm of it never once staggering in a world that’s drowning in overpowering darkness. Like a dandelion growing in the tiniest crack of the sidewalk, persistent, existing despite all odds. 

Piers looks up from his plate, stares at Chris, watches him shove so much food into his mouth that it’s a miracle he hasn’t thrown up yet. Amazing how someone so legendary, so impressive, can also be so completely and wonderfully _human_.

“ _You probably saw it for yourself, but we all have a lot of admiration and respect for the captain. In addition to being a very capable leader, he treats us like family. He's an inspiration to us all_ ,” Piers wrote in his very first e-mail to Claire so many months ago. And in this moment, surrounded by chatter and laughter and dirty plates, it could not be more true. They’re family. And right now, there’s not a place in the world Piers would rather be. 

“What?” Chris suddenly says, jerking Piers out of his thoughts. He swallows the piece of steak he’s been chewing on. “Do I have something between my teeth?”

 _Stop with the fucking staring, you idiot_ , Piers scolds himself.

“No, I was just thinking,” he says out loud.

The captain gulps down a mouthful of water, and then uses the fork in his hand to vaguely motion to Piers’s direction. “You seem different lately. A little... off.”

Piers freezes in place for a short moment, but quickly recovers. Hopefully quick enough for Chris not to notice the slip. He reaches for his own glass of water, praying the gesture looks as nonchalant and natural as he wants it to be. “What do you mean?”

“You’re so quiet. Downright amiable. I’m getting worried — when’s the last time you picked a fight?”

Piers theatrically throws a glance at his watch. “Well, it’s only 8:30.”

Chris releases an amused snort, and Piers smiles back at him.

“And that!” Chris raises one finger, pointing it at Piers’s face. “You’re _smiling_.”

“So?”

“Well, I’m sorry, Piers, but you don’t smile,” Chris declares. “You smirk. In those two years I’ve known you, I’ve genuinely seen you smile about three times. Four times, tops. So, what’s going on with you? Did you meet a girl after all?” A pause. “It’s not Claire, is it? Because if it is—”

“Are you seriously giving me the ‘If you hurt her, I’ll kill you’-speech right now?”

“—I’d be very happy for you. Both of you. And she’s fully capable of handling you herself, but I guess you already know that.”

Piers holds Chris’s gaze for a moment. Then he looks away, suddenly no longer being able to bear looking into those kind brown eyes staring back at him with such a sense of approval and sincere happiness. Piers’s stomach clenches, painfully so, and he leans forward, smudging the traces of steam at the rim of his glass with his thumb, wondering why the hell he’s feeling so hollow all of a sudden. So tired.

“Well, I’m not,” Piers says, more sharply than he really means to. “Dating her.”

“I was just wondering.” Chris’s tone is carefully neutral, but Piers is still able to detect the underlying note of hurt in the captain’s voice. 

That night, Piers thinks he’s reached a low point. Of course, that was before Christmas Eve. Before they are forced to watch all of their men lose their humanity, lose everything they are in a matter of seconds, each with only one, fatally aimed syringe. Ben, Carl, Andy, Finn — all dead and gone right before their eyes. Before he carries Chris out of that hell on earth all on his own, achieving the seemingly impossible task of taking on four Napads alone. Before Piers sits beside Chris’s unconscious lying figure in the hospital, holding the captain’s hand in-between his two own, for once not giving a damn about putting up any pretense. 

He wishes he didn’t know why his heart feels like it’s being torn right out of his chest when he finds Chris’s hospital bed empty later that day — the captain gone without a trace, without a note, without an explanation or a goodbye.

Those six long, agonizing months spent searching for him, sometimes thinking that maybe he’s wrong, maybe Chris is dead. Then reminding himself that there’s no way. It’s _Chris Redfield_. He’s not dead, of course he’s not, he’ll have a good reason for leaving and staying away.

Finding Chris, drunk, reeking of booze and cigarettes, not even able to remember him, sitting in a shithole of a bar still in Eastern Europe. _That_ shithole of a bar. The fucking irony.

The captain is the mere broken shell of the man he used to be, fitting right in in-between all those pathetic drunkards, but still at the same time so out-of-place and _lost_. The moment Piers lays his eyes on him, he feels a sting in his chest. And damn it, it’s still there. After all this time.

The disappointment is too great to keep his emotions under control. He lashes out, yells at Chris, even goes so far to shove the faces of their fallen soldiers into his oblivious, confused face. He realizes later that he should have been more rational, more understanding, softer. That Chris did not choose to forget about them, about Piers.

But love, Piers has learned, is everything but rational.

“Can I talk to him?”

Piers lowers the phone for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a much needed heavy sigh.

“I don’t know, Claire. He’s... confused. He’s got trouble remembering a lot of things. That day in Edonia, it... did something to him. I can barely even recognize him anymore.” Piers looks to the ground, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth as his hand curls to a fist. He’s glad that Claire isn’t able to see his face right now. 

“And you’re sure immediately dragging him back to fight is the best thing to do right now?”

The undisguised anger in her voice causes him to swallow and his certainty waver. He glances to his right, catching sight of Chris surrounded by the rest of the team. A part of him can’t deny how relieved he feels to see this picture again. But Chris still got this look in his eyes, as if he can’t understand why he’s here or what he’s supposed to be doing, encircled by men that are like strangers to him. Piers tells himself that it’s the remnants of the alcohol that have to be dragging Chris down, that of course the captain’s gonna need a little bit of time to get used to this again after being on his own for so long. But fighting bioterrorism is what Chris has been doing all his life. There’s no one else better at it than him. 

Piers tears his eyes away again, determined. He’s doing the right thing, he’s got to believe that. 

“We need him, Claire,” he finally says. 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and for a few long seconds all Piers can hear is static, mingled with the distant noise of a female computer voice making an airport announcement. “Who needs him, Piers? The BSAA? Or you?”

Piers sighs again. He sees no point in trying to hide the truth. Not with Claire.

“Both.”

Silence.

“Just... Just promise me you’ll look after him, okay?”

Piers’s answer comes unflinchingly. “Always.”

“And yourself, too,” Claire adds, insistent. “I know this musn’t be easy for you—”

“I can manage.”

“I know you can,” Claire says gently, and God, he wishes she wouldn’t sound so damn worried. As if she’s able to see right into his head, just by hearing his voice over the telephone. “Piers—”

“I actually gotta go, the plane is about to board. We’ll come by once this is over, all right? I’m sure you and the captain have a lot of catching up to do,” Piers says, talking so quickly that he’s almost stumbling over the words. “Take care, Claire.”

Then he hangs up, before he has the chance to do something stupid, like get unreasonably emotional. Because hell, he doesn’t know if he could have managed getting through those six months without her help, her constant encouragement, her putting up with his frustration and the vain late-night calls about discoveries and leads that never went anywhere. He never said thank you, and now he realizes that he should have, at least this once.

Well, Piers thinks, it’s not like this was the last chance he’ll ever get to say what he wants to, what he needs her to hear. He’ll just have to postpone that conversation to after they’ve dealt with this, when he’s back in the States. His personal matters will have to wait. The mission takes priority, as it always does. As it should.

On the plane to China, Piers sits next to Chris, intending to brief the captain on everything they know about that’s going on in Lanshiang right now, and to fill in any gaps Chris might ask him about. He’s gotta have questions, right? Surely, he _wants_ to remember. And from experience Piers knows that a ten-hour flight in a small, crammed carrier can feel like an eternity.

But instead, the captain falls asleep the second the aircraft lifts off the ground, causing every inch of hope Piers has harbored to evaporate in an instant. Great. So much for getting Chris back in the game as soon as possible. 

It’s a turbulent flight, and every few minutes the plane is shaken by a violent tremor, making Piers more nauseous than ever. He’s always been sensitive to any kind of motion sickness, and traveling by plane isn’t any better, unfortunately. No matter how much it annoys him, he just can’t seem to get rid of it. Distraction usually helps, but eating isn’t an option right now, and neither is reading. 

So he does the only thing left that he can do without risking the chance of throwing up — which is sleep. Shooting one last glance to his left, he can see that Chris seems to be having a bad dream. At least that would explain the incoherent mumbling and the occasional sudden jerk of his head. Most of it is spoken so low and unintelligible that Piers can’t figure about what the captain is actually saying. Once or twice he makes out a word, but that’s it. 

“Forest,” Chris mumbles, and that’s about the point Piers accepts that none of this is making any sense. What kind of dreams involve a forest anyway? Beaten, he puts his backrest into a comfortable position and is just about to close his eyes, when another word leaves Chris’s lips. No, not a word, a name. Richard.

Then, suddenly it clicks. Forest. Forest Speyer. Richard Aiken. The S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team. That’s who Chris is dreaming about. Who he’s having _nightmares_ about.

Piers scoffs. _You remember them and not your_ own _team?_ he wants to shout. _Not Finn?_ _Not me? What did_ they _do that still makes them so present in your mind?_

He knows he’s being irrational again, and unfair too at that. That it’s ridiculous to be jealous of people that have been dead for over 15 years. Knows exactly _why_ he’s behaving like a jackass — and somehow that only succeeds in making him angrier. 

Not wanting to think anymore, Piers throws his head back into his seat and closes his eyes firmly shut. The air in the plane is stale and dry, and the motion sickness is close to overpowering him again, especially now that he’s so worked up. Thankfully, exhaustion begins to battle his nausea, and just as Piers has managed to regulate the rhythm of his breathing, he’s finally beginning to drift asleep.

* * *

The first thing Piers notices once he’s woken up again are the rays of sunshine that are falling on his face and shining directly into his eyes. He squints, wishing he’d thought to bring a pair of sunglasses. The next thing he becomes aware of is that he’s lying on something hard. Something that’s definitely a lot more solid than the backrest he’s fallen asleep on a couple of hours ago. Something warm. 

Warily, Piers pushes himself into an upright position, only now realizing on what he exactly he’s been napping on. Or rather, on _whom_. 

Chris is already awake, staring down at him with drawn-together eyebrows. Piers quickly regains his lost composure and lets a mask fall over his face, aiming to conceal every bit of emotion it may have revealed for the fraction of a second there. 

But Chris, still so awfully cautious and guarded around him, sees it. Damn it.

“Were we... together?”

The question is spoken low, uncertain, so _unlike_ Chris.

“Yeah, we were partners,” Piers rasps. He clears his throat, quickly correcting his statement. “We _are_ partners. We have been for almost three years.”

“No,” Chris interjects. “No, I mean— Were we...? Did we...?”

Piers’s eyes widen as understanding hits him. How the hell is he even supposed to begin to explain? Chris is still looking at him, expectant, and in a flash the momentary helplessness Piers feels quickly gives way to anger. _Now you notice? Now that everything’s gone to shit and you don’t even remember who I am or what we do?_

Aloud, Piers mumbles one short, flat “no”, before turning away and directing his gaze to the sight of the setting sun outside of his window. He puts on his work-face, tries to steer the conversation away from anything too personal, focussing on the mission instead, now that Chris is awake and receptive enough again. It’s what counts, what’s important. It’s why he spent six months of his life searching for their lost captain. Or so Piers tells himself. 

Once they’re on the ground and right in the middle of things, Piers slowly begins to realize how unstable Chris really is — always on edge, displaying a sort of abrasiveness Piers has never seen in him before. _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be_ , Piers thinks. _You’re the one that has to hold me back from picking fights, not the other way round. I’m the hotheaded one. Not you._

Chris is behaving unnecessarily reckless, almost to the point of being suicidal, not just risking his own life, but that of the team as well. 

Piers feels naked, so utterly vulnerable without the assurance of Chris as a stable constant beside him to keep him grounded. Even in the worst of times, in-between guts and blood and gunfire he always had Chris. They’ve always been equals in that regard, complementing each other. They simply _fit_.

But now Piers feels like he’s falling, without anything to hold onto. He recalls that moment in Edonia, of him standing around the team and the lost soldier that died doing recon, Piers's head bowed, unable to look at the others and just not knowing what to _say_. Until the captain showed up at his side, finding just the right words to bring the team back together and give them — give Piers — the needed strength to get past this and move on. 

Now they’re losing one teammate after another, and Chris is storming after the B.O.W. responsible and after Ada without taking the time to think, heedlessly, recklessly, and now it’s time for Piers to get the situation under control. He’s gotta be more like Chris, like Chris from before. Until the captain is himself again, that is.

It doesn’t work.

He tries to reason, tries to get Chris to listen. Then they lose Marco, and that’s the last straw before everything, Piers’s patience included, truly begins to burst.

“Chris, we need to stay calm.”

“After what she’s done to us? How many of our men are dead because of that _bitch_?!” Chris shouts at him.

“I’m right there with you, Captain, but your personal vendetta isn’t gonna get us anywhere!” Piers shouts right back. So much for staying calm. “If you hadn’t been blinded by vengeance, we could have prevented some of those deaths.”

“Shut up,” Chris says, turning his back to Piers as if he doesn’t want to hear the truth. 

_Oh, hell no, you don't get to simply turn away. Not from this, not from me. It's time to face some goddamn responsibility.  
_

“Do you even care about our mission anymore?” Piers asks, quietly this time, unable to hide the underlying layer of hurt in his voice. A part of him isn't sure if he even wants to hear the answer. 

“Shut up!” Chris yells again, spinning around. 

“I feel sorry for all the men that _died_ believing in you!” Piers spits back, now letting out all that bottled-up frustration, glad that at least he’s getting a proper reaction out of Chris.

As expected, Chris roars at him, gripping both of Piers’s shoulders and forcefully pinning him against the wall. Piers shoves against Chris’s chest, pushing right back. He’s not gonna back down now. “What happened to the legendary Chris Redfield, huh? What happened to you? It’s a good thing Finn’s not around to see you this way.”

Throwing Finn’s death into the captain’s face is a low move, even now with everything that’s happened, and for a moment his own words shock him. His bottom lip quivers, just for one second, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Chris’s dark eyes, unwilling to give in.

He’s breathing heavily, becoming aware that his hands are still placed on Chris’s torso. The captain is staring at him, too stunned to say anything or loosen the grip he has on Piers’s shoulders. His large body is shuddering with harsh pants, and Piers can _feel_ the captain’s chest rising and falling underneath his fingers, can feel the warm breath on his face. Just for a second, Chris’s eyes flicker to his lips, causing Piers’s resolve to crumble, even if it’s only a little bit. The air between them is so heated that Piers is almost able to feel it on his skin. 

He’s contemplating to just throw his perseverance out of the window, and just do it, let it all out in the open. But what good would that do, eh? It’s not gonna fix anything. Not Chris, not him, not this fucked-up situation they’ve found themselves in. Still, he doesn’t let go. He’s not gonna be the first one to yield, that’s for sure.

Chris takes the choice away from him, suddenly darting forwards with one swift motion and pressing his lips on Piers’s own. Piers lets out a soft gasp of surprise, opening his mouth, leaving just enough space for Chris’s tongue to brush against his own. 

Whatever Piers was expecting, it wasn’t that.

He tastes like war. Like destruction, and fear, and loss, and anger, and confusion — and all of it is so wrong. Strong arms encircle him, moving from his shoulders down to his hips, muscles strong enough to lift him off the ground and up against the wall. He’s decided, he vaguely realizes, it’s this version of Chris’s body he likes better. 

He curls his fists into Chris’s tactical vest, pulling him towards him, his mind screaming _closer, not nearly close enough,_ and just like that all those repressed emotions and wants surge to the surface. It’s messy and angry, with teeth clattering and lip biting, rutting against each other almost desperately, and nothing like Piers ever imagined it to be. 

He closes his eyes, loses himself in Chris’s wandering hands, the warm lips that are trailing to his jaw, his neck, the knee that's pressing against the space between his legs, allows himself these few minutes of weakness. He can taste blood on Chris’s skin, blood and sweat and dirt. In the distance he can hear gunfire and screaming, now mixed together with the sound of his own moans and Chris’s panting.

The air is hot and heavy, stained with the smell of smoke and death. The realization hits him like a bucket of ice cold water. People are dying out there, _their_ people are dying out there, all of them risking their lives and fighting for their cause, and instead of helping to put an end to all that mindless violence, Piers is here, being fucking _selfish_. 

“No,” Piers breathes into Chris's hair, still not finding the strength to let go. “No, stop. Not like this.”

Chris stops, releasing his hold on Piers. He stares at him, evidently confused. His lips are red and swollen, and he’s staggering backwards with unsteady steps. He almost looks drunk. He looks like Piers is feeling, if Piers is being honest with himself. 

_God, what are you doing to me?_

“Not now,” Piers says, trying to ignore how cold he feels all of a sudden without Chris’s arms around him. "Later. When you... When you’ve had some time to think. To remember. It’s not right this way.”

But oh God, how badly he wants it to be right. His body is trembling and aching for Chris’s touch, almost screaming at him to shut up and resume what they were doing, and he wishes he could, so much that it’s painful. 

“We’ve gotta do what he came here for,” he hears himself say, his voice sounding much calmer than the one in his head. 

Chris takes another step back, nods. He takes a couple of seconds to catch his breath and then he turns, the movement still too erratic and uncontrolled, confirming that Piers made the right decision to put a stop to this before it went too far. “HQ, this is Alpha leader. I need a location on Ada Wong.”

Piers flicks his tongue over his mouth, still being able to taste Chris there. He releases a deep breath, trying to collect himself again.

They pretend nothing happened — what else is there to do? Even once Chris is back, finally being his old self again, they don’t talk about them, don’t even acknowledge the fact that there now is a _them_ , of course they don’t. Track Ada, stop the missiles, rescue Jake and Sherry, defeat Haos; his mind’s beginning to sound like a broken record. The mission, the mission, the mission, the mission, the mission—

They don’t have to do this now, not even today. There’s still so much time left for them, time to figure this out, time to convince Chris not to resign, time to get used to the thought of becoming captain of Alpha team one day.

Until there isn’t.

All of it annihilated with the sting of one single needle, by his own choice. It’s either that or watching the captain die — and he’s not gonna lose Chris again. 

It’s strange, terrifying really, how easy it is for Piers to accept his own death. And yet a world without Chris Redfield remains unimaginable. 

“I’m sorry... Captain...” He can barely speak, barely hold himself upright. He holds onto Chris, his hand once again on his chest, and the captain steadies him with a firm grip on his shoulder, keeping Piers from falling. From an outsider’s perspective it’s got to look like a mirror image of them tangled up in each other in that hallway. But this— this feels right. There’s no rage in the way Chris is holding him, no confusion. Only tenderness.

“I did it... for the BSAA,” Piers rasps, wishing his voice wouldn’t sound so damn brittle. “For the future.” _For you_.

Chris nods at him. “I know. You did a real good thing.”

The next words take effort, but he needs to say them. There’s not gonna be a later. “As long as you—”

“I don’t wanna hear it!” Chris cuts him off. A hand reaches out, cupping Piers’s face, gently, carefully, nothing how it felt like before, when they lost each other together in grief and bitterness. Piers allows himself to lean into the touch, and in this irreparable situation it brings him something he didn’t expect — hope.

“We’re both getting outta here, all right?” Chris says, as if there’s not even another possible outcome to this. As if it’s self-evident that they’re both gonna survive this. And Piers believes him, even if logic tells him that it’s madness to be so naive. Before he has time to reconsider, a thumb brushes over his cheekbone. Despite himself, Piers inclines his head, nodding at Chris. 

He clings onto that small fraction of hope and onto his own delusion all the way to the escape pods. Until he’s sitting on the ground, waiting for Chris to prepare the capsule, groaning in pain, all of it getting too much handle any longer. His arm starts pulsating, twitching all on its own, and he’s forcefully brought back down to earth, to reality. The thing is disgusting. _The thing,_ he calls his own limb. As if it’s not a part of him. He can taste his own blood in his mouth, mingled with that sticky ooze that’s all over his face and uniform. He’s gradually, but surely losing sight on one eye, and everything on his right side appears overshadowed by a gray veil, blurred and unclear. 

He thinks back to Finn, turning into something beyond recognition, attacking Chris, throwing him against the wall, relentlessly punching and beating a man he used to have so much respect and affection for. Violent, unpredictable, not human anymore. Transformed into one of the monsters they’ve sworn to rid this world of.

In that moment, Piers realizes that there are worse things than dying. 

“Piers!” Chris yells when Piers bundles the last bits of his remaining strength to push his captain into the escape pod and to safety. Chris starts hammering against the window with his fists, and the mere sound of the desperation of it all makes Piers’s heart break. “No, don’t do this! Open the door! _Goddamn it, listen to me._ We can still both get outta here. There’s still time.”

 _Time_ , Piers thinks, almost releasing a short, humorless laugh. _That’s the only thing we don’t have, Captain._

He doesn’t look up. He can’t bear to look Chris in the eyes, too afraid that he’s going to waver, start listening to Chris’s pleas, to his orders. It’s not until he’s finished programming the escape pod that he’s finally lifting his head, staring right into Chris’s tear-filled eyes. 

“No...” Chris whispers, shaking his head. 

Around them, the facility is falling apart, coming closer to its destruction with each passing second. 

Piers keeps still, doesn’t move away, doesn’t blink, doesn’t cry. He shakes his head at Chris and presses his lips together, resolved, accepting. He’s never been so sure about anything.

Then the pod lifts off.

Piers remains standing on the spot, watches Chris’s silhouette get tinier and tinier as it fades away, keeping his eyes open the entire time — thinking this is as close to saying ‘I love you’ as he’ll ever get.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read and liked the story, please consider taking a few seconds to leave a comment. It always makes all those days spent with writing so much more worth it :)


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